


Footage

by 221b_hound



Series: Lock and Key [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Body Part Kinks, Clothing Kink, Foot Fetish, Foot Jobs, Foot Massage, Light Bondage, M/M, Socks, anal toeing, but not the way you're thinking, toe fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 05:13:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4991548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock knows John has a thing for his feet. So why isn't John <em>doing</em> anything about it? Sherlock deduces a few things, plans a few things and then does quite a few things. Because doesn't John Watson understand yet? Nothing that John wants is out of bounds. Not even foot sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Footage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



> I would like to thank Atlinmerrick for the word 'slickery' and for gleeful encouragement of the foot sex. I seem to write all my raunchiest sex scenes for this series. I wonder what on earth I'll write about next.

After the suspension fantasy, Sherlock and John were closer than ever, more in tune, more _simpatico_. John had surrendered utterly within the fantasy and in their bed, and Sherlock had taken care of him, body and heart. He had witnessed Sherlock abandon himself utterly to John, too. For all that it was John tied up, it had been a mutual capitulation. The whole thing seemed to have healed something in John that neither of them had known needed mending.

Sherlock had wondered briefly at his own readiness to cede his usual boundaries, but he was learning to be more honest with himself. There wasn’t anything to wonder at, really. He liked to abandon himself to John sometimes – to the certainty of John’s care for him, to the physical sensations of touch and affection and sensuality and orgasm. It wasn’t only a chemical response, but a psychological pleasure as well. It was closeness and trust and revelling in having what they once thought could never be theirs. It was letting John know that those things were true for them both.

Certainly, that was what the Sheet Thing was about, though Sherlock wasn’t sure if John fully understood the significance of that particular indulgence. Perhaps he should make it clearer.

The Sheet Thing was not the issue right now, however.

The issue, right now, was the puzzle of John and his attitude to Sherlock’s feet.

John sat in his chair reading _The Lancet_ and Sherlock sat in his chair staring at John’s feet, encased presently in navy blue M &S socks and shoe leather.

Sherlock quite liked John’s feet, it was true, but he was fond of most parts of John. Sometimes, in idle hours when cases were scant, he would lie on the sofa and rank John’s parts in order of preference. The order changed frequently, though his eyes and his tongue and his hands were generally in the top five. His smile, certainly. His calves. Sherlock liked John’s calves a lot. Also his little belly. The dimples just above the rise of his backside. Also his backside. His ears. And though it wasn’t a _part_ exactly, there was that sound John made when Sherlock sucked on his nipples. The one he made when Sherlock sucked on his cock. Oh, and John’s cock of course, and even the spread-wide vulnerability of his hole when offered to Sherlock, so clean and wrinkled and a little pink – and the sounds John made when Sherlock was busy on that pucker with tongue or cock had a whole mind-palace sound-drawer of their own.

Also, John’s gold-and-wheat-and-grey-and-tan hair.

Ranking the Ten Best Parts of John Watson could sometimes take _hours_ of careful consideration and usually ended in sex as soon as John got home from wherever he had so inconsiderately gone.

Sherlock was also fairly sure of his own parts’ rankings in John’s order of preference, which were less changeable than Sherlock’s. John’s top five were: Sherlock’s mouth, his arse, his hands, his voice and his feet.

And therein nestled the puzzle.

Sherlock considered John’s fantasies – which included the Army Captain licking Panty Corporal’s feet, and the Deserter Lieutenant’s hands on Captain Brainstorm’s creaking leather thigh boots. Then there were all the socks John bought for him. Along with the silly ones, there were the expensive ones, sheer and soft. During sex, John liked sometimes to kiss and lick at Sherlock’s feet, if they’d just been washed.

But really, Sherlock thought, there was a lot more that could be done with his feet if John was so keen on them. He was certainly more than willing to participate in any experiments, but John was reticent. He never asked for more, never suggested more. He _thought_ more, _obviously_ , but those thoughts remained unvoiced. Despite everything, there were still things John did not ask for.

Sherlock stared at John’s feet and tried to deduce the reason for the silence.

_He loves to touch my feet. To kiss them. To see them in the socks he’s bought for me. But he wants more. He licks his lips when he looks at my feet. Sometimes, when he is looking at my bare feet, he shifts his hips, too, like he’s getting hard, like he’d like to…_

_But he thinks it’s too kinky to ask for it. Possibly, he is concerned about the hygiene factor._

Well, _that_ was easily fixed.

*

Three evenings and one too-easily-solved case later, John was in his chair, reading _The Independent_ this time. Sherlock sat opposite him, as usual, fresh from the shower, shirtless but dressed in crisp blue suit trousers, his blue dressing gown thrown over the top, and a new pair of blue cashmere socks. A recent gift from John. The colour matched the dressing gown. Sherlock parted the dressing gown carelessly on the left, to show off his key tattoo. Sight of it always made John sentimental and open to affection and erotic suggestion.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, lifted his legs and placed his feet on John’s knees, the arches pressed to the curve of each patella.

And then, with slow deliberation, he rubbed his stocking feet down John’s shins, and back up to the knee; he pushed the arches inward, against John’s inner thighs, forcing his knees to part, and rubbed the sides of his feet and as much of the arches as he could all along John’s inner thighs to his groin.

He saw John’s fingers tighten on the edges of the newspaper. He watched John’s crotch and saw how John’s cock thickened in his jeans and changed the shape of the material.

Sherlock moved his feet so that the arch of his right was pressed over the bulge, and he tucked the toes of his left underneath John’s backside. And he wriggled his toes. He felt John’s cock thicken more and press into the sole of his right foot.

John finally dropped the paper enough to look over the top of it at Sherlock. He was flushed with arousal. His irises dilated further at sight of the key tattoo, as Sherlock had predicted, but his expression indicated a confusing mix of desire and discomfort.

John swallowed. ‘Sherlock, what…?’

‘Do you know what I did today?’ asked Sherlock, too huskily to be casual.

‘You left me at the Yard to do all the bloody paperwork? Again.’ He did an admirable job of masking his sexual interest with mock-annoyance.

‘Yes, but do you know _why_?’

‘Usually it’s because you can’t be arsed with the paperwork.’

‘True,’ said Sherlock, unfazed. He lifted his left hand to drift over his tattoo, to caress his own nipple briefly in an unmistakable signal. He wriggled the toes under John’s bum very slightly and he felt as well as saw John squirm faintly on top of them. ‘But today I had a specific reason. I’d booked a pedicure, John. A complete pedicure. My nails are trimmed and clean. My feet are soft. They’re like a newborn’s feet, John. That’s how clean they are.’

John swallowed again.

‘You like my feet.’ Sherlock minutely wriggled his toes again, and John minutely squirmed on top of them again.

‘Yes. I do.’ John could not take his eyes off Sherlock’s.

Sherlock could feel John’s erection pressing more insistently against the arch of his foot.

‘Let’s do things with my feet, John.’

‘Like… like what?’

‘Filthy things. I can think of at least four.’

The cashmere clad arch of Sherlock’s right foot flexed against John’s erection, making John gasp. And then he withdrew the foot he had inveigled under John’s backside and slunk lower in his chair so that with his whole leg extended, he could rub his left foot up the front of John’s shirt, slide it to the left. He felt around with the ball of his foot until he detected the hardened nub underneath. Then he rubbed that foot, encased in soft blue wool, over and over the covered nipple.

John’s breathing was very hard now, and his cock was straining against his trousers, against the sole of Sherlock’s right foot.

That’s when Sherlock, moved his left foot, sliding the ball of it down until his long toes rested against that hard little nipple underneath, and he managed, despite all the barriers, to slide the peak between his big toe and the one beside it and to _tweak_.

John’s head dropped back, his hips lifted, and he groaned. It was a _wonderful_ sound.

‘Let me do delicious things to you with my feet,’ urged Sherlock.

John’s eyes, hazy with lust, opened but they still held some alarm. Sherlock dropped his feet to the floor – John looked very sorry to see them go – and he rose to first loom over John, and then to sink down into his lap, straddling John’s thighs.

‘Don’t you understand yet?’ said Sherlock, voice low and rumbling in the way he knew John liked best, ‘Nothing that you want is out of bounds.’ He plucked up the newspaper, still held limply in John’s right hand, and flung it on the floor so that he could kiss John’s mouth, and then suck on his earlobe (which had had its time in the top ten). Then he spoke so that his lips brushed against John’s ear.

‘I will try anything you ask me to. Happily. Willingly. If what you want is not for me, I will tell you so, no judgement, you know me, rarely backward in coming forward, well, not any more, but John, oh _John, John, **John**_.’ Sherlock nuzzled his nose against John’s temple and rolled his hips in John’s lap so that their erections bumped together through the layers of cloth. ‘ ** _You_** _are for me_. I cannot imagine anything you want that I would deny you.’

He drew back to look into John’s eyes. John was panting; his hands were on Sherlock’s hips, gripping tight.

‘I want so much, Sherlock,’ he said hoarsely, ‘It’s too much. It can’t be healthy, how much I want, now that I’ve got you at last.’

‘I’ve never been a moderate man,’ Sherlock replied, eyes dancing, lips twitching in a smirk. He kissed John slowly, and John kissed him back, straining up to suck at Sherlock’s lip until Sherlock took John’s lower lip between his teeth and gently tugged at it, pulling though not biting. John’s breath hitched. Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s other ear. ‘Let us be immoderate together, John. Let’s try everything, at least once.’

‘Except incest and folk dancing,’ John choked out with half a laugh. Sherlock frowned at him in some alarm. ‘No,’ said John hastily, ‘It’s an old quote. It’s…’

With an expression, Sherlock dismissed the words. ‘Come on. Let’s go be _debauched_ together.’

John’s gaze was intent on Sherlock’s mouth at first, and then dropped to the floor. To Sherlock’s left foot, then his right. And it still wasn’t enough, Sherlock could see. John _wanted_ but he was already measuring _how much can I ask for_?

_You think I won’t say no if it’s too much. You don’t seem to know that you can **never** be too much for me. John, John, John, have you **met** me?_

Instead of any of that, Sherlock said, ‘Will you let me choose how far we go?’

John’s gaze shot up to meet his, full of relief. ‘Yes. Of course, yes.’

John clearly had no misgivings, despite their history, that Sherlock would go further than _John_ wanted. _I will never get your limits._

Sherlock stood up. He took John’s hand and pulled him up to his feet. He cradled John’s face in his hands and they kissed again, lips touching, then tongues, with John’s arms around Sherlock’s body, along his naked back under the dressing gown. John’s fingers caressed Sherlock’s spine, and drifted over the ends of the scars on his back, then down his waist and to his hips again. Before he could dip his fingers below the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers, Sherlock broke away and led John to the downstairs bedroom. John, smiling, followed.

Just before the bedroom, Sherlock bustled John into the bathroom. John laughed and shut the door to strip and quickly wash. Sherlock prepared the bed, so when John joined him, slightly damp and wrapped in a towel, everything was ready.

Sherlock reached out to trace his fingers over the lock tattoo, then let his fingers trail down John’s ribs. He snagged at the knot at his waist then tugged the towel away and pulled John close again, to kiss and to hold his damp, naked body close against his own still clothed one. He wriggled his socked toes over the top of John’s bare ones, caressing them.

‘Sherlock,’ whispered John, and Sherlock could hear the slight note of embarrassment still in his voice.

‘Sshh,’ said Sherlock, ‘Unless you want me to stop. I like this.’

‘So do I,’ breathed John.

Sherlock lifted one foot so he could rub a cashmere caress over John’s shin and calf. ‘On the bed,’ he said.

John lay down on his back and stretched his wrists towards the bed head, where had had already seen that Sherlock had looped two lengths of red silk. Those soft restraints were an irregular feature, since John had shared the suspension fantasy with him, though who wore them depended on their mood.

Sherlock bent to kiss John and say, ‘No. On your knees.’

Without hesitation, John turned onto his stomach and drew his knees up under him. Leaving plenty of play in the silk ribbons, Sherlock loosely bound John’s wrists to the bedhead. John wouldn’t be able to see what Sherlock was doing to start with, which was all to the good. It would give John time to forget his vestigial embarrassment and just go with it.

Sherlock climbed onto the bed behind John and took a few moments to rearrange him, legs spread wide, a pillow under his chest.

‘All right?’ he checked and John’s sharp intake of breath was so needy that further verbalisation wasn’t necessary.

Then Sherlock sat and made his first caress – the soles of his feet, clad in cashmere, against the exposed, bare soles of John’s feet. Sherlock stroked down with the balls of his feet and his toes, and John shuddered.

‘Tickles,’ said John.

Sherlock stroked John’s feet harder, and John, kneeling on the bed, wriggled. The sight of him, tied down, legs spread, balls and growing erection hanging visible between his thighs, wriggling his arse in wanton response, instantly became one of Sherlock’s favourite visions. He filed it in the mind palace, and left the door open for all the good things so soon to come.

Sherlock then proceeded – still in his suit trousers (getting tight across the groin, now) and askew robe – to stretch his legs and twist his hips so that he could, with his cashmere socks, rub his feet all over John’s back and ribs and thighs and arse. Especially his arse, massaging those full curves, pushing his heels in below to lift the cheeks, pushing down again with the balls of his feet, sweeping the arches in a fan from the outside in; from the inside out. Squeezing John together, spreading him. It was mesmerising to do, to see.

John wriggled. He arched. He moaned and panted. He pushed backwards against Sherlock’s feet as much as he could, muttering reverent curses that meant that he was loving every second of it.

And then Sherlock dipped his feet between John’s legs and used the outside of them to stroke John’s inner thighs. He rubbed along John’s cock and balls with the tops of his soft-socked feet.

John made a most gratifying, hedonistic whine and frotted against the top of Sherlock’s feet. Then he stopped.

‘Keep going,’ said Sherlock, his own tone a lascivious growl.

‘Christ, Sherlock. Christ.’

Sherlock rubbed his feet against John’s erection again, and then shifted so that he could, as far as possible, hold John’s cock in a grip between the balls of both his feet and his toes, and stroked again, and he could feel the heat of John’s cock through the socks.

The strangled whimper John made then, as he thrust into the awkward grip, went into a very special sound cupboard in the mind palace, and Sherlock grinned lustily as he filed it away.

‘Hold on,’ he said and wriggled down the bed so that he could now rub John’s stomach and chest with the now slightly sticky socks. John bowed his back to nudge against the sensation.

The position caused some strain along Sherlock’s back, thighs and calves, but seriously, he didn’t care if he couldn’t walk for a week after this. This – John – was spectacular. But Sherlock couldn’t maintain it for long. Not if he wanted to keep going. And he really, really, really wanted to keep going.

He pulled his feet away and John moaned an inarticulate complaint at the loss.

‘Hush,’ said Sherlock softly, ‘Wait.’ He rearranged himself on the bed, peeled off the socks and took up a bottle of scented oil he’d left by the bed. He poured generous amounts of it over his feet and massaged it in – over and between his toes as well as his soles.

Then, his bare feet slick with body-warmed oil, Sherlock sat back again and rubbed his feet over John’s arse. They slid, slick and warm, down that wonderful slope, massaging him in the same delicious circles as before.

John held his exposed position and panted, his cock huge and hard and leaking pre-come in sticky strands onto the sheet. From time to time his hips quivered and jerked, although there was no friction to jerk into.

‘John,’ said Sherlock.

‘Fuck. Sherlock. Fuck, that’s…’

‘Yes,’ agreed Sherlock in a gravelly, sex-addled sigh, ‘It is.’

Then Sherlock’s feet slid _inward_. Into the crease. Toes wriggling against the skin there. With his feet, his arches and heels, so soft and clean after the pedicure, he parted John’s arse cheeks and dragged the pad of his big toe slowly over John’s hole.

The growl John made then, deep and primal and rising to a lusty keen, was, hands down, Sherlock decided, _the best sound_ John had ever made during sex.

When Sherlock moved to dip his feet between John’s legs, to rub the length of John’s cock with the top of his slippery foot, John was trembling all over and panting and chanting, ‘Fuck, Christ, Sherlock, god, fuck, please. God. Yes. Fuck.’

Sherlock sincerely hoped he wouldn’t give John a coronary with the next part.

He stopped and moved to the top of the bed to help John turn onto his back. John’s hands were still tied – there was enough give the in restraints so that his arms crossed over the top of his head. Then Sherlock took the ends of a second set of longer ties and used them to hoist John’s legs up and wide, the ribbons looped under his knees.

John, dazed, let himself be manhandled, unable to take his eyes off Sherlock’s face. Sherlock grinned at him, bent to kiss him, and then got off the bed.

‘Watch, John,’ he said in a beckoning tone, and John watched while Sherlock stripped out of his suit trousers to reveal that he was wearing a flimsy pair of bright red panties underneath. His erection was thick and red, the crown of it jutting out the top of the panties, his shaved balls barely restrained by the silky crotch.

‘Fuck,’ said John. His cock actually pulsed slightly, growing larger, getting wetter.

Sherlock climbed back onto the bed, sitting at the lower end and facing John’s beautifully exposed body.

‘Keep watching,’ said Sherlock.

John kept watching as Sherlock slicked up his feet with massage oil again. He kept watching as Sherlock leaned over to dribble oil over John’s cock and then he was quivering again as Sherlock used his fingers to spread oil generously under his balls, onto his bared hole; _into_ it.

Then Sherlock leaned back again, and began to rub John’s body with his clean, perfect, slick feet all over again. The sides of his feet on John’s inner thighs, heels against the plump of John’s backside, arches along the side of John’s cock. He foot-wanked John a little while, for the joy of watched John buck up into the odd tunnel that didn’t give enough friction, and to hear the helpless little whimpers of ecstasy.

And then he did _The Thing_ he’d been planning. He used one foot to push John’s arsecheeks wider and he slid the other foot into the cleft and he wiggled his slick toes _right in there_.

He pressed the pad of his big toe against John’s entrance and pushed a little. Wiggled some more. Pressed again.

John was so far gone he tried to say Sherlock’s name and only got as far as ‘Sher-‘ before a deep, sex-laden groan welled out of him, ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah.’

Then Sherlock shifted his foot a fraction, because the big toe wasn’t quite working right, and now his second toe, as long as the big toe but half the width, was pressed to the little pucker. Slick skin (nails trimmed and clean with no edges to catch) met slickery hole and Sherlock **_pushed._**

John gave a cry of pure sexual joy and suddenly found words, two of them, and then only one: ‘Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck fuck fuck fuck…’

Sherlock’s long second toe pushed into – just a little – John’s hole. The penetration wasn’t deep, but it set every nerve ending gathered in that point to singing in seventy four part harmony throughout John’s body and brain. Tingling nerve endings married just to the very _idea_ of it built the sensation up to more than it might have been – and made John strain against his bonds and thrust down onto Sherlock’s foot. Pre-come dribbled freely from his cock in little surges, spilling over his crown and shaft in sticky, pearly rivulets.

Sherlock wiggled and pushed with that foot, then ran the ball of the other up the underside of John’s shaft, spreading his toes so that John’s cock could slip into the groove between his big toe and the one beside it.

John, helpless with lust, whimpering and cursing, responded with jerks of his hips. He closed his eyes.

‘ _Don’t close your eyes_. Look. Watch. John. John, _watch_.’

John opened his eyes and abandoned embarrassment at the look of hunger in Sherlock’s eyes, Sherlock’s flushed skin and parted lips and panting breath; at Sherlock’s cock straining thick and wet against the little red panties, and his peaked nipples standing out pink against his pale chest.

Sherlock’s legs were beginning to tire, but he didn’t have to do much now – with his feet in position, John was doing all the work, writhing to push back onto Sherlock’s toe in his arse, forward to the slide of his prick along the sole of Sherlock’s foot and between his spread toes.

John abandoned himself to bucking against Sherlock’s foot, his glazed blue eyes fixed on the point between his spread legs where Sherlock’s feet, his lovely long feet, were… _doing_ things, being _places_ , where they, where he, _where, where, where_ …

_‘Oh god, oh god, oh god, ah ah ah ah AH!’_

John came hard in great pulses over Sherlock’s feet, over his own belly and chest, over the bed.

Sherlock waited until John had subsided before slowly pulling his feet away. He curled his legs up, giving them a respite from their excellent afternoon’s work. He palmed at his own erection and gazed with pheromone-sodden pride at the wreck he’d made of John Watson.

 _Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair_.

John blinked at him, dazed. ‘Fuck,’ he managed to say.

_Oh yes, please._

Sherlock got onto his hands and knees and crawled up the bed. He crawled over John’s still red-ribbon-suspended body and dragged his belly over John’s come-spattered torso.

“I want to fuck you now, John. I need to fuck you. Can I? Can I?”

John, breathless, nodded and even tried to hitch his legs up higher. Sherlock scooted back to kneel between John’s legs. He kissed each of John’s ankles, the sensitive creases near the back of his knees, then rubbed his finger over John’s hole. He poured more oil on, and fingered the pucker some more. He slipped in a finger, and after a while two, and then three. He was so impatient, he wanted to have his cock in John _right fucking now_ , but still, he took his time, easing the tightness of the muscle, making John slippery, making him ready.

Then Sherlock pulled the red panties to one side – not taking them off, _oh hell no_ – and slicked his cock up with the oil, and then pressed the head against John’s entrance.

‘Yes,’ panted John, ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes…’

Sherlock pushed inside of him, slowly but inexorably, the flimsy red cloth of the panties straining across his hip, pressing against his balls and his backside as he pushed into John’s arse and began to thrust.

‘John,’ Sherlock half moaned with every exhale, ‘John. Yes. Fuck, yes. Mine. Mine.’

‘Yes,’ agreed John, ‘Mine. Fuck. Yes. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh.’ A grunt with every thrust. ‘Oh. Oh. Oh.’ His eyes were wide open as he watched Sherlock abandon himself to the pleasure of fucking John. Sherlock’s hips undulated in steady rhythm that grew faster and less steady until, not long after, overwhelmed with sensation, Sherlock shouted John’s name as he came.

Sherlock sagged over John’s body, cheek resting on John’s chest, as he panted and tried to either catch his breath or get his legs to work. Neither option seemed to be imminent.

John slipped his hands free of the ribbon ties – they were never designed to keep him pinned against his will – and loosened the ties around his legs as well. The latter dropped to loosely wrap around Sherlock’s legs, and he draped his arms over Sherlock’s shoulders. His fingers found their way into Sherlock’s curls and flexed absently there.

Sherlock hummed happily, and he didn’t even care that his temple was resting in a smear of come on John’s chest. He moved his hips a little, and his cock slid out of John. John sighed, a little _ah_ of mixed contentment and the slight sting.

‘That,’ asserted Sherlock from his sticky, boneless position, ‘Was fantastic.’

John hummed assent. Then he began to giggle. And then to giggle harder. ‘That was,’ he said more definitely, ‘ _Fucking_ fantastic.’

‘I’ve booked a quarterly pedicure,’ said Sherlock helpfully.

John was giggling so hard that Sherlock was rocking on his chest, as though he was prone on an unstable dinghy. He began to giggle too, and they clung to each other – exhausted, sated, delighted, sweaty messes.

‘We need to go shopping for more lingerie,’ said Sherlock when he had sobered sufficiently to bring it up, ‘I’ve ruined these ones. They’re all _stretched_.’

John dissolved into fresh waves of giggles. He burrowed his nose into Sherlock’s hair, still laughing, and then flopped back onto his pillow with a happy _aaaaaah_. ‘I’ll get you all the panties you want,’ he said.

‘And some more cashmere socks,’ added Sherlock, ‘We got pre-ejaculate all over mine.’

Another giggle. ‘And socks. You gorgeous bastard.’

‘Mmmmmm,’ said Sherlock. He turned his face a little, to the come-sticky lock tattoo under his cheek, which he licked at, then kissed, then pillowed his cheek on once more. ‘Mine.’

John squirmed under him, but manoeuvred their bodies at last until they lay side by side. John stretched his legs out and managed to rub his toes affectionately along the top of Sherlock’s feet.

‘Mine,’ he murmured.

They woke up an hour later sticky and dishevelled, and Sherlock’s ruined panties were digging in at his hip, but for weeks after, just the memory of that afternoon would make them smile.

At least until Sherlock’s next pedicure, when they made some new memories to go with them.

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock's feet. Mmmm.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Ben's feet. Mmmmmm.
> 
>  

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [play footsie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10808931) by [missmuffin221](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmuffin221/pseuds/missmuffin221)




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